Getting Even (9 page)

   By this time, to the surprise of those sitting next to me, I found myself trying, as usual, to help the mime clarify the details of his scene by guessing aloud exactly what he was doing. “Pillow… big pillow. Cushion?
Looks
like cushion…” This well-meaning participation often upsets the true lover of silent theatre, and I have noticed a tendency on such occasions for those sitting next to me to express uneasiness in various forms, ranging from significant throat-clearings to a lion’s-paw swipe on the back of the head, which I once received from a member of a Manhasset housewives’ theatre party. On this occasion, a dowager resembling Ichabod Crane snapped her lorgnette quirtlike across my knuckles, with the admonition “Cool it, stud.” Then, warming to me, she explained, with the patiently slow enunciation of one addressing a shell-shocked infantryman, that the mime was now dealing humorously with the various elements that traditionally confound the picnic-goer-ants, rain, and the always-good-for-a-laugh forgotten bottle opener. Temporarily enlightened, I rocked with laughter at the notion of a man harassed by the absence of a bottle opener, and marvelled at its limitless possibilities.

   Finally, the mime began blowing glass. Either blowing glass or tattooing the student body of Northwestern University, but it could have been the men’s choir-or a diathermy machine-or any large, extinct quadruped, often amphibious and usually herbivorous, the fossilized remains of which have been found as far north as the Arctic. By now, the audience was doubled up with laughter over the hijinks on the stage. Even the obtuse Lars was wiping tears of joy from his face with his squeegee. But for me it was hopeless; the more I tried, the less I understood. A defeated weariness stole over me, and I slipped off my loafers and called it a day. The next thing I knew, a couple of charwomen at work in the balcony were batting around the pros and cons of bursitis. Gathering my senses by the dim glow of the theatre work light, I straightened my tie and departed for Riker’s, where a hamburger and a chocolate malted gave me no trouble whatever as to their meaning, and, for the first time that evening, I threw off my guilty burden. To this day, I remain incomplete culturally, but I’m working on it. If you ever see an aesthete at a pantomime squinting, writhing, and muttering to himself, come up and say hello- but catch me early in the performance; I don’t like to be bothered once I’m asleep.

   The following are a few examples of conversations taken from the soon-to-be-published book
Conversations with Helmholz.

   Dr. Helmholtz, now nearing ninety, was a contemporary of Freud’s, a pioneer in psychoanalysis, and founder of the school of psychology that bears his name. He is perhaps best known for his experiments in behavior, in which he proved that death is an acquired trait.

   Helmholz resides on a country estate in Lausanne, Switzerland, with his manservant, Hrolf, and his Great Dane, Hrolf. He spends most of his time writing, and is currently revising his autobiography to include himself. The “conversations” were held over a period of several months between Helmholtz and his student and disciple, Fears Hoffnung, whom Helmholtz loathes beyond description but tolerates because he brings him nougat. Their talks covered a variety of subjects, from psycho-pathology and religion to why Helmholtz can’t seem to get a credit card. “The Master,” as Hoffnung calls him, emerges as a warm and perceptive human being who maintains he would gladly trade the accomplishments of a lifetime if he could only get rid of his rash.

   
April 1:
Arrived at the Helmholtz house at precisely 10:00 a.m. and was told by the maid that the doctor was in his room sorting some mail. In my anxiety, I thought she said the doctor was in his room sorting some meal. As it turned out, I had heard correctly and Helmholtz was sorting some meal. He had large fistfuls of grain in each hand and was arranging it in random piles. When queried about this he said, “Ach-if only more people sorted meal.” His answer puzzled me, but I thought it best not to pursue the matter. As he reclined in his leather chair, I asked him about the early days of psychoanalysis.

   “When I first met Freud, I was already at work on my theories. Freud was in a bakery. He was attempting to buy some
Schnecken,
but could not bear to ask for them by name. Freud was too embarrassed to say the word
‘Schnecken,’
as you probably know. ‘Let me have some of those little cakes,’ he would say, pointing to them. The baker said, ‘You mean these
Schnecken,
Herr Professor?’ At that, Freud flushed crimson and fled out the door muttering, ‘Er, no-nothing-never mind.’ I purchased the pastries effortlessly and brought them to Freud as a gift. We became good friends. I have thought ever since, certain people are ashamed to say certain words. Are there any words that embarrass you?”

   I explained to Dr. Helmholtz that I could not order the Lobstermato (a tomato stuffed with lobster) in a certain restaurant. Helmholtz found that a particularly asinine word and wished he could scratch the face of the man who conceived it.

   Talk turned back to Freud, who seems to dominate Helmholtz’s every thought, although the two men hated each other after an argument over some parsley.

   “I remember one case of Freud’s. Edna S. Hysterical paralysis of the nose. Could not imitate a bunny when called upon to do so. This caused her great anxiety amongst her friends, who were often cruel. ‘Come, Liebchen, show us how you make like a bunny.’ Then they’d wiggle their nostrils freely, much to the amusement of each other.

   “Freud had her to his office for a series of analytic sessions, but something went amiss and instead of achieving transference to Freud, she achieved transference to his coat tree, a tall wooden piece of furniture across the room. Freud became panicky, as in those days psychoanalysis was regarded skeptically, and when the girl ran off on a cruise with the coat tree Freud swore he’d never practice again. Indeed, for a while, he toyed seriously with the idea of becoming an acrobat, until Ferenczi convinced him he’d never learn to tumble really well.”

   I could see Helmholtz was getting drowsy now, as he had slid from his chair to the floor under the table, where he lay asleep. Not wishing to press his kindness, I tiptoed out.

   
April 5:
Arrived to find Helmholtz practicing his violin. (He is a marvellous amateur violinist, although he cannot read music and can play only one note.) Again, Helmholtz discussed some of the problems of early psychoanalysis.

   “Everyone curried favor with Freud. Rank was jealous of Jones. Jones envied Brill. Brill was annoyed by Adler’s presence so much he hid Adler’s porkpie hat. Once Freud had some toffee in his pocket and gave a piece to Jung. Rank was infuriated. He complained to me that Freud was favoring Jung. Particularly in the distribution of sweets. I ignored it, as I did not particularly care for Rank since he had recently referred to my paper on ‘Euphoria in Snails’ as ‘the zenith of mongoloid reasoning.’

   “Years later, Rank brought the incident up to me while we were motoring in the Alps. I reminded him how foolishly he had acted at the time and he admitted he had been under unusual strain because his first name, Otto, was spelled the same forwards or backwards and this depressed him.”

   Helmholtz invited me to dinner. We sat at a large oak table which he claims was a gift from Greta Garbo, although she denies any knowledge of it or of Helmholtz. A typical Helmholtz dinner consisted of: a large raisin, generous portions of fatback, and an individual can of salmon. After dinner there were mints and Helmholtz brought out his collection of lacquered butterflies, which caused him to become petulant when he realized they would not fly.

   Later, in the sitting room, Helmholtz and I relaxed over some cigars. (Helmholtz forgot to light his cigar, but was drawing so hard it was actually getting smaller.) We discussed some of the Master’s most celebrated cases.

   “There was Joachim B. A man in his mid-forties who could not enter a room that had a cello in it. What was worse, once he was in a room with a cello he could not leave unless asked to do so by a Rothschild. In addition to that, Joachim B. stuttered. But not when he spoke. Only when he wrote. If he wrote the word ‘but,’ for instance, it would appear in his letter ‘b-b-b-b-b-but.’ He was much teased about this impediment, and attempted suicide by trying to suffocate himself inside a large crepe. I cured him with hypnosis, and he was able to achieve a normal healthy life, although in later years he constantly fantasized meeting a horse who advised him to take up architecture.”

   Helmholtz talked about the notorious rapist, V., who at one time held all London in terror.

   “A most unusual case of perversion. He had a recurring sexual fantasy in which he is humiliated by a group of anthropologists and forced to walk around bowlegged, which he confessed gave him great sexual pleasure. He recalled as a child surprising his parents’ housekeeper, a woman of loose morals, in the act of kissing some watercress, which he found erotic. As a teen-ager he was punished for varnishing his brother’s head, although his father, a house painter by trade, was more upset over the fact he gave the boy only one coat.

   “V. attacked his first woman at eighteen, and thereafter raped half a dozen per week for years. The best I was able to do with him in therapy was to substitute a more socially acceptable habit to replace his aggressive tendencies; and thereafter when he chanced upon an unsuspecting female, instead of assaulting her, he would produce a large halibut from his jacket and show it to her. While the sight of it caused consternation in some, the women were spared any violence and some even confessed their lives were immeasurably enriched by the experience.”

   
April 12:
This time Helmholtz was not feeling too well. He had gotten lost in a meadow the previous day and fallen down on some pears. He was confined to bed, but sat upright and even laughed when I told him I had an abscess.

   We discussed his theory of reverse-psychology, which came to him shortly after Freud’s death. (Freud’s death, according to Ernest Jones, was the event that caused the final break between Helmholtz and Freud, and the two rarely spoke afterwards.)

   At the time, Helmholtz had developed an experiment where he would ring a bell and a team of white mice would escort Mrs. Helmholtz out the door and deposit her on the curb. He did many such behavioristic experiments and only stopped when a dog trained to salivate on cue refused to let him in the house for the holidays. He is, incidentally, still credited with the classic paper on “Unmotivated Giggling in Caribou.”

   “Yes, I founded the school of reverse psychology. Quite by accident, in fact. My wife and I were both comfortably tucked in bed when I suddenly desired a drink of water. Too lazy to get it myself, I asked Mrs. Helmholtz to get it for me. She refused, saying she was exhausted from lifting chick peas. We argued over who should get it. Finally, I said, ‘I don’t really want a glass of water anyhow. In fact, a glass of water is the last thing in the world I want.’ At that, the woman sprang up and said, ‘Oh, you don’t want water, eh? That’s too bad.’ And she quickly left bed and got me some. I tried to discuss the incident with Freud at the analysts’ outing in Berlin, but he and Jung were partners in the three-legged race and were too wrapped up in the festivities to listen.

   “Only years later did I find a way to utilize this principle in the treatment of depression, and was able to cure the great opera singer, J, of the morbid apprehension he would one day wind up in a hamper.”

   
April 18:
Arrived to find Helmholtz trimming some rose bushes. He was quite eloquent on the beauty of flowers, which he loves because “they’re not always borrowing money.”

   We talked about contemporary psychoanalysis, which Helmholtz regards as a myth kept alive by the couch industry.

   “These modern analysts! They charge so much. In my day, for five marks Freud himself would treat you. For ten marks, he would treat you and press your pants. For fifteen marks, Freud would let
you
treat
him,
and that included a choice of any two vegetables. Thirty dollars an hour! Fifty dollars an hour! The Kaiser only got twelve and a quarter for being Kaiser! And he had to walk to work! And the length of treatment! Two years! Five years! If one of us couldn’t cure a patient in six months we would refund his money, take him to any musical revue and he would receive either a mahogany fruit bowl or a set of stainless steel carving knives. I remember you could always tell the patients Jung failed with, as he would give them large stuffed pandas.”

   We strolled along the garden path and Helmholtz turned to other subjects of interest. He was a veritable spate of insights and I managed to preserve some by jotting them down.

   
On the human condition:
“If man were immortal, do you realize what his meat bills would be?”

   
On religion:
“I don’t believe in an afterlife, although I am bringing a change of underwear.”

   
On literature:
“All literature is a footnote to Faust. I have no idea what I mean by that.”

   I am convinced Helmholtz is a very great man.

   
Excerpts from the Diary of a Revolutionary

   
June 3:
Viva Vargas! Today we took to the hills. Outraged and disgusted at the exploitation of our little country by the corrupt Arroyo regime, we sent Julio to the palace with a list of our grievances and demands, none hastily arrived at nor, in my opinion, excessive. As it turned out, Arroyo’s busy schedule did not include taking time away from being fanned to meet with our beloved rebel emissary, and instead he referred the entire matter to his minister, who said he would give our petitions his full consideration, but first he just wanted to see how long Julio could smile with his head under molten lava.

   Because of many indignations such as this one, we have at last, behind the inspired leadership of Emilio Molina Vargas, decided to take matters into our own hands. If this be treason, we yelled on street corners, let us make the most of it.